The Hardest of Hearts
by my-heart-is-just-as-silent
Summary: What would happen if Damon didn't discover firsthand that Katherine was never entombed in "Fool me Once?" Elena must face his unpredictable reaction when he learns of her betrayal. "The sweetest of words have the bitterest taste." AU, slightly OOC.


**A/N: Alternate universe one-shot, which I used as my final Creative Writing submission (counted as an exam grade- yes, I WOULD write fanfiction for an exam). Twisting "Fool Me Once" where it's discovered Katherine was never entombed. I wondered how the scene would play out if Damon was not only taken out of character, but also if he remained ignorant to the discovery longer than anyone else. Of course Stefan, being a total doucher, would try to keep the news a secret from his brother. Elena, totally in-character, would ultimately confess, unable to hide such crucial information from Damon (whom she doesn't realize she loves yet, but soon will). Pearl and Anna are sort of irrelevant to me, and I prefer this intimate exchange more. **

**Title taken from Florence and the Machine's gorgeous song. POV switches halfway thru.**

THE HARDEST OF HEARTS

_"There is love in your body but you can't get it out_  
_It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth_  
_Sticks to your tongue and shows on your face_  
_That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste."_

Before Damon became the restless, stern bone cage that stood before her she had glimpsed, however briefly, a slower, plusher version. He was taintless, and perfect in his vulnerability. As the worn mask slipped back over the truth, Damon was still perfect, but now his seamlessness stemmed from apathy. Elena was well aware that the short insight into Damon's other half, the half made in heaven, would likely not occur again. She felt privileged, and smirked with misplaced bitterness. Had Katherine seen this side of Damon? When the corseted brunette beauty had ensnared him with the compulsion he still tried to shake free, centuries later, did she know the havoc she was wreaking? His human heart was forfeit in the change to immortal, but Elena was certain the transformation had a larger significance; his heart, the irreverent, pulsating thing, belonged to Katherine. Vampirism stole and organ, but Kat spirited away the soul within.

She very nearly hated this Damon, frozen in his control. Elena clenched her fists together and tried to halt the flow of tears. It was inevitable; she cursed herself for being weak in this moment, when Damon could so obviously destroy her with well-chosen syllables.

"'Lena," he said. "Look at me." There was no pity in his tone, a distinct lack of any emotion. His voice rode the fine line between harshness and neutrality, and Elena wondered idly which was preferable. She had wronged him, obeyed Stefan's orders and kept this knowledge to herself.

A day. She lasted one day. Then, Elena crumbled into misspent pieces of resolve, cornered Damon in the boardinghouse's drawing room, confessed that Katherine, his love from centuries' past, was alive.

"Look at me," he demanded, nuances dipping down into frigid, angered territory.

His blueberry eyes, blazing with cold flames, leveled her with their ferocity. And the quicksilver grin she so loved had been replaced with a sharp downturn of full lips, creating an unforgiving line. The raven hair gleamed in the firelight, though the sheen didn't dance, merely flickered. That funny strand of unkempt bang fell over his forehead, and she attempted to temper her pain with the pleasure that came from observing him: each muscle finely crafted, as if by an old master, and his long, lithe build added to panther-like movements. He was cautious, crafty by nature, and the stylish Wranglers and black leather jacket seemed odd when Elena imagined them fitted on a big cat.

Gathering her strength she murmured, "I'm sorry. Damon, I'm sorry. I should have told you the moment I knew."

"Yes," he agreed solemnly. "You should have."

* * *

First, she was Katherine, and that was the irony of it.

She was Katherine with straight hair and blue jeans, none of the grandeur of luxurious curls and flouncy dresses. Elena was Katherine as Damon first knew her: melted down chocolate, sweet and innocent. She possessed all of Kat's wit but no cruelty. Though it had taken him time to make the distinction between them, he was sure he had found it now: Elena's love was _real_. He couldn't determine this sooner. Her apologetic face was the final puzzle piece.

He knew now: Elena loved him.

How could one judge the strength of another's affection if it was not directed toward them? Impossible- Katherine had proved it three hundred years ago, when she had fooled Damon beyond reason, beyond skill. He thought she loved him, and was thereby blinded by his connection to her.

But Elena was saccharine humanity personified, the lone, blooming violet in an ash field at the base of a supervolcano. Her love had no motive, no ulterior sense of game and twisted preparations.

She wasn't Katherine, but he loved her even more. Looking at Elena was like gazing hopelessly into the unmoving, deep eyes set into Kat's aged photograph. The paper had yellowed, features blurred, but they were unquestionably identical. Elena, a twin, some cosmic joke, but definitely not Katherine incarnate. Their insides were as different as an iced-over tundra landscape and the pointed expanse of Arizonan desert, as smooth, expressionless glass and multifaceted diamond.

Elena gazed at him, tortured by her rapture, her guilt. He didn't care if Kat had never been entombed in Mystic Falls, or if she was soot still drifting on the wind. This admission, the fact that Katherine was roaming free and well and _had never come to him_ was further proof. He had been her plaything, poor, pitiful mortal garbage. She had shaped him into immovable arctic stone, and because of her he'd spent years and years of treating the same bruises with bad medicine.

"Finally," he whispered, breaking the lengthy silence. At last, he was freed from the tricky ropes Kat had thrown, bonds, after so long, shattered. Liberation tasted nothing like regret.

She was confused, and he could only offer her a small smile.

"I don't care," he professed, trying the words out once more. "I really just don't give a damn."

Her black-hole, fawn eyes, the precise shade of her brunette tresses, spilled over with relief. He had held against her the reflection of his memory for too long. She wasn't a fixed mirror anymore. He hoped she knew that, regardless of articulation.

And no longer was his heart straining, cold and wintered, somewhere in Katherine's grasp.

Elena returned his smile.


End file.
